


Miss You Something Rotten

by Pandir



Series: 1000 crescents AU [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: 1000 Crescents AU, Adult Dipper Pines, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Choking, Dark Dipper Pines, Extremely Dubious Consent, Extremely bad coping mechanisms, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 20:30:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15714552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandir/pseuds/Pandir
Summary: Of sickness and infections,fatal flaws and chain reactions.





	Miss You Something Rotten

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KrokoRobin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrokoRobin/gifts).



> Written for the [1000 crescents AU](https://even-more-crescents.tumblr.com/post/175611745901/1000crescents-decided-crescentsdipper-finally).

Ford kisses him, hard and feverishly, his wiry neck, the line of his jaw. He does not bother going for the mouth - he is too busy tugging at his belt and holster for more coordinated movements than sucking at whatever bit of exposed skin his lips find.

It hardly matters anyway. The young man is little more than a stranger who has helped him evade security after stranding here. But luckily, the lanky twenty-something with the quite unusual name Dipper - like the asterism, Ford thinks, but does not inquire further - continues to be helpful and convenient. And Ford is ready to show some gratitude, especially when he has been offered a relatively safe place to stay. Essentially, it is not much more than a mattress on the ground in a cramped and claustrophobic room, but people with their face featured on wanted posters cannot afford to be choosers. It is sufficient for a few hours of sleep, and the mattress even provides enough room for a quick fuck on the side.  
  
The young man hisses when Ford’s teeth catch the sensitive skin below his jaw, and his fingers impatiently swat Ford’s own hands away to take off his holster with surprising ease. He - Dipper, Ford recalls, though he should not bother too much with remembering this. After all, he will be gone by tomorrow. But the name, as silly as it may sound, holds some fascination to him. A nickname in all probability, but if it is a chosen name, then why not pick a more impressive star constellation, like Orion?

Not that Ford can ponder much about it as Dipper straddles Ford with his legs, his knees poking into Ford’s thighs, and pushes the worn out coat from Ford’s shoulders. His hands feel hot even through the sweater, and Ford shivers. It has been over eight years - at least Ford assumes it has been, time is hard to keep track of when hopping through dimensions. All he knows with certainty is that he discovered the first grey hairs at his temples a few months ago. Yet if the way his nerves fire when Dipper breathes against his skin before he kisses it is any indication, it must have been an awfully long time since he has been this close to another human being. The intensity of his need surprises him - he hasn’t thought himself capable of missing this specific kind of company so much, on such a visceral level.  
  
Something stirs in him, and he tries to chase away the resurfacing impressions, immediate yet distant, like from another life. A warm hand reassuringly resting on the curve of his arm, fingers brushing his face to adjust the safety mask that he has forgotten to wear again, a bony shoulder pressing against his when they were bent over the construction plans of what would become his biggest regret--

Teeth tug at his bottom lip and Ford groans at the sharp pain that thankfully interferes with what has been threatening to well up inside him.

“Hey, how about you focus on the task at hand?”, Dipper says with a half-grin, but something in it is not just amusement. There is a certain tension behind it, and when Ford looks into his gaunt face framed by shaggy hair, the dark circles beneath the eyes rivalling Ford’s own and Dipper’s gaze glued to him like that, the word that comes to Ford’s mind is _starved_.

“Or is this not doing it for you?”, Dipper asks, challenging, and Ford quickly puts his hands on his hips to pull him closer, down onto his lap.

“You may notice that this is, in fact, very much ‘doing it for me’”, he breathes against Dipper’s ear, pleased to feel his acquaintance’s erection when his crotch brushes against Ford’s own hardening cock. For a split second, the body beneath his hands tenses up. But then Dipper rolls his hips, pushing almost painfully against him, and Ford’s fingers dig into the tender flesh next to his hip bones, not to discourage him, but to control and steady his movements. Dipper moans, quietly, and it sounds surprisingly soft. The noise goes right to Ford’s cock, and he hopes Dipper notices the jerk of his hips.

“Yeah?”, Dipper licks his lips. His fingers slide over Ford’s shoulder to grab the hair at the back of his neck. “I got something even better”, he announces and releases his grip, his palm brushing the nape of Ford’s neck.

Ford freezes at the sudden, paradoxical sensation of something warm and wet slithering against his hot skin, licking over his Adam’s apple in a way hands are very much _not_ supposed to move or feel.

Before the implications of this contradictory, nonsensical, _all too familiar_ input can even fully register, Ford grabs Dipper’s wrist and rips the hand off his throat, his other hand on Dipper’s neck to hold him in place. Dipper does not struggle against the vice grip, but readily turns his palm up for Ford to examine.

A black, forked tongue sticks out of a dark hole in the middle of the palm, performing a wave-like motion, as if to greet him.

“W-what the-...”, Ford starts, but interrupts himself when the tongue vanishes inside its hole and the flesh knits seamlessly before his eyes, leaving only a crescent mark reminiscent of a closed eye. For a disorienting moment, reality seems to be slipping, and Ford is certain he is dreaming.

He must be.  
  
Except the bony wrist remains solid in his grasp, and the stranger’s pulse strong and palpable against Ford’s fingers clinging to his neck.

The feeling of unrealness is chased away by a very real sense of dread creeping up his spine the moment Dipper stops contemplating his own hand caught in Ford’s death grip to look back at him, eyebrows raised in mock surprise.

“And here I thought you’d recognize your ex.”

Something solidifies like ice in Ford’s stomach as the mark on Dipper’s palm opens to reveal an eye, glowing in that signature yellow hue, the slit of its pitch-black pupil narrowing as Ford stares back at it, unmoving.

The eye curves in delight and, much more disconcertingly, laughs. Its mouthless cackling resonates in Ford’s skull and crawls right beneath his skin. Ford flinches away from it like he's been burned, pushing Dipper off him. He wastes no time to contain him, holding him down with his weight, his arm on Dipper’s chest and the other on his wrist, pinning the cursed hand down next to his head, even though Ford is loath to be so close to it.

“What is the meaning of this? Who are you?”

“I already told you-”, Dipper starts, even though he barely has enough breath to speak.

“Quiet!”, Ford barks, only more bewildered by the fact that his opponent is apparently not currently being possessed, at least not in a way Ford is aware of. Then again, there were many things that Bill has kept from him. “Is this one of your tricks, Bill?”, he demands.

He does not get an answer.

Instead, the tongue creeps out again, apparently undaunted by Ford’s grip around the wrist tightening so much it has to be restricting the blood flow. It rather deliberately avoids contact with him as it slithers out until it extended far enough to slowly, languidly lick along Dipper’s jaw. In response, Dipper inclines his head towards the wet caress, and Ford finds himself transfixed by the way the tongue folds to press against the skin, leaving a trail of dark saliva.

Dipper snorts. “Eyes up here, Ford.”

That tears Ford from his observations and his gaze flicks up to meet Dipper’s. How does he know his real name? Ford is so certain he has never seen him before, but when he looks into the boy’s brown eyes, he is somehow not so sure anymore.

It is ridiculous that he thinks of Stanley. The scrawny young man has nothing in common with his brawly brother. More importantly, he has not seen Stanley since their youth - he might not even remember correctly what his eyes looked like.

Dipper avoids his scrutinizing look by turning towards the tongue which has been lapping at the corners of his mouth with its thin forked end, and without any preamble, the tongue slips between Dipper’s parted lips. Ford, still locking Dipper in place, is all but forgotten. Maybe Ford should be grateful for that, because he struggles to respond to the situation at hand, torn between interrupting this shameless display and _\----_ Ford can see the black tongue coiling as it presses into the cavern of Dipper’s mouth, and Dipper opens it readily, his drawn-out moan mingling with the slick noises of the slithery tongue sliding against the soft tissue of Dipper’s mouth. The sound is downright obscene to Ford’s ears, and he is uncomfortably aware of the fact that his own mouth is suddenly very dry. Dipper shifts beneath him, rolling his hips and making it impossible to ignore the fact that they are both still hard and aroused.

A movement at the corner of his eye grabs his attention. Dipper has lifted his free hand to lie the other side of his head and the eye of the left hand has opened to look at him with curious interest.

To his utter embarrassment, Ford feels caught. Even though he knows that Bill cannot see right through him, not anymore, his face heats up under the provoking stare of the eye.

“Bill thinks you’re feeling left out”, Dipper elaborates, still a little breathless while the tongue playfully licks at his cheek.

Ford hates that he was fully aware of Bill’s intent already just from the way Bill’s eye has been watching him.

“As if I would _care_ \--!”, Ford starts heatedly, but Dipper uses his moment of agitation to grab him by his sweater and pull him forward. Reflexively, Ford catches himself with one hand, releasing Dipper’s wrist, but the momentum also causes him to press down harder, his body weight and his other arm on Dipper’s chest effectively holding Dipper in place. To his surprise, Dipper does not try to escape, yet while Ford is caught off-guard, Dipper seizes the chance to press the hand on Ford’s mouth.

The tongue – soft and moist, but agile and moving with considerable force - immediately wedges its way between his lips, and entirely undeterred by Ford’s resistance, pries his mouth open and teeth apart as soon as its forked tip has wormed between them. At the forceful intrusion, Ford releases Dipper to tear off his hand instead. Dipper digs his nails into Ford’s cheeks to keep it right where it is, clasped over Ford’s mouth, and the tongue lodges itself behind his teeth. That is when Ford bites down hard, digging his incisors into the soft flesh. It tastes like battery acid, like electric sparks prickling against his palate.

In response, the intruding appendix wriggles against the roof of Ford’s mouth with a shiver and a hum that seems to emit from nowhere in particular, yet vibrates down Ford’s throat to settle right in his stomach. Its forked tip tickles Ford’s uvula, and he is overcome by the sudden urge to gag. His mouth opens wider, just enough for the tongue to slither in deeper and plunge right down his throat. Ford convulses, his fingers digging into Dipper’s arm until his nails draw blood. Dipper’s hissed groan of pain barely registers as Ford is split open, his Adam's apple pushed out and his windpipe stretched, and Ford gags helplessly.

Something in his mind tells him this should hurt more than it does, but despite sharp pangs of burning ache, the pain feels numb and distant. Manageable. It must be the fluid coating Bill’s tongue that has numbing qualities, Ford presumes. Like a predator sedating its prey before consuming it. 

Breathing is hard to focus on, and Ford feels lightheaded, saliva dripping from his chin as he is drooling around the thick, undulating muscle. It is prying him open relentlessly, his throat tearing and hurting, and it's wrong, wrong, wrong, but also right in a way nothing has felt in _years_.

Black spots are starting to blur his vision.

“Hey, I'm not done with him”, a voice cuts in as Ford struggles to stay conscious.

Then he feels the tongue retreating, wriggling and writhing on its way out. When Ford retches dryly, heaving, dizzy from relief, it licks playfully at his lips, at his chin coated in saliva. Something twists in Ford’s stomach, something that has nested inside him like a parasite.

Bill can’t leave him like this, that bastard, he won’t allow him, he won’t let him retreat-

Dazed and aching, Ford sways forward, only vaguely aware that he is probably staining his pants, so painfully close to coming he must be leaking with arousal. Still holding onto the thin arm as if his life depended on it, Ford presses his open mouth to the hand, licking against the slick appendix that is still coyly retreating.

Sharp pain cuts through him and tears a muffled cry from his tortured throat, and Dipper rips his hand out of Ford’s grip. Blood is dripping from Ford's mouth in thick splotches right onto Dipper’s white shirt.

“That’s right”, Dipper says, and his voice is fraught with tension, “I'm still right fucking here.”

Hand clasped over his own mouth, Ford stares at him, his gaunt face framed with matted hair, and he _swears_ he does not know him, but this emotional rawness is strangely, uncomfortably familiar.

“Do your stick your tongue into every teeth-lined orifice?” Dipper pushes him off and Ford has to scramble to regain his balance. Dipper snorts at the sight. “Shit, get some self-control.”

Dipper’s palm licks its mouth with an audible smack, giggling in delight.

Ford makes a garbled noise as response, his mouth filled with more blood than he can keep in or swallow without it being absolutely sickening, so it spills over his lips and drips from his chin. His tongue is nothing but a useless stump, half of it bitten clean off by the sharp, vicious teeth of this abomination. Spitting a mouthful of blood on the mattress, Ford crawls towards his coat. _Curse Bill, curse his own stupidity, curse it all._ He has to pull himself together, breathe away the pain. His gun, it has to be right here where he foolishly has allowed this complete stranger to take it off.

A bony knee presses into his back just when his fingers follow the belt of the holster to the handle of his particle splitter. Ford lets himself be pushed down, grabbing his gun in the same motion and trapped with his face turned towards the mattress, he shoots blindly over his shoulder. There is a sizzling noise as the blast collides with flesh and Dipper cries out. This is the moment that Ford throws himself against the pressure keeping him down, and he manages to topple his attacker and to quickly roll over. Dipper’s shoulder is bleeding, but he barely seems to pay it any heed, now livid as Ford wrestles him to the ground.

His thigh collides hard with Ford’s side. An overwhelming wave of nausea rises within him and Ford retches violently, but nothing but blood and acid comes out.

Dipper’s hands are on his throat now, and the tongue is back, warm and slick, but this time there is no teasing. It tightly wraps around Ford’s throat with restricting, unyielding strength.

To Ford’s confusion, it does not coil tighter. Instead, Dipper digs his fingers into Ford's hair, Ford’s protesting noises quickly stifled as the young man kisses him hard. Blood is still welling from Ford’s mouth and Dipper licks at it, sucks it off his lips, his hands and body searing hot against Ford’s and the pungent stench of vomit now omnipresent.

“I'm here”, Dipper repeats, breathlessly, vehemently, “I’m right here.”

He kisses him deeper, tonguing against the stump, and Ford groans, wincing at the dull pain.

Ford's fingers tremble uncontrollably now, but he manages to find the button at the side of his particle splitter to reload. It takes him a considerable effort to focus on his grip on the gun, but he manages to keep his index finger steady. Just as he inhales to ready himself, the tongue around his throat suddenly constricts strong enough to crush his larynx and Ford’s finger slips.

The plasma blast singes a hole in the mattress behind Dipper and Ford drops the gun to claw at the slick, slippery tongue suffocating him.

“Back off, Bill, this is my turn”, Dipper hisses at his own hand, not much fazed by the fact the he just barely evaded death.

The restriction on Ford's throat loosens, his fingers slip between the tongue and his skin, nails digging into the smooth surface, and Ford gasps for air. Then, suddenly, the hand the tongue belongs to grabs him by the hair on his neck, while the other hovers just over Ford’s mouth. Dipper's palm is barely brushing his lips, but Ford instinctively tries to recoil as he senses the scorching heat.

“Look at me”, Dipper tells him, and it's raw, just like the look on his emaciated face when Ford’s eyes lock with his.

Dipper presses the hand to Ford’s mouth, muffling the wretched cry that tears out of Ford’s mangled throat just as the air above Dipper’s palm ignites in a burst of flames.

 

*

 

Dipper wipes his mouth and straightens himself. He’s an absolute and utter mess, his legs wobbly and his white shirt stained with dark red splotches and reeking of vomit.

He tries swallow the aftertaste of acid down, but it stays burning in the back of his throat.

It’s not the sight of the corpse - its rib cage torn open from the explosive force of the fire blast burning through the lungs, the broken ribs sticking out of the scorched, seeping flesh - that has made him puke. This sudden nausea must have been natural response to the sickening taste of burnt flesh.

Ford’s head has rolled to his side when Dipper released him, his lips blackened and torn, his chin caked in blood. Dipper leans against the adjacent wall to slide down and sit, his bent legs tugged close to his body, to at least enjoy the sight for as long as he can stand the biting smell.

His arms rest on his knees, and he has one palm turned up, allowing the tongue to lick his neck, to lap at the blood drying on his jaw. The tongue moves languorously, its touch warm and soothing against his skin as it proceeds to clean his face, and Dipper closes his eyes.

The fingers of his free hand dig into the denim of his jeans, and when he kisses the bloodied tongue, mouthing and licking at it, it's just him.

His mind is freewheeling, his head aches, but he kisses himself, quietly, deliberately, and the heat boiling in his blood slowly, slowly dies down.

**Author's Note:**

> ((Background thoughts on this particular Ford:  
> The Ford in this little ficlet is from a parallel dimension where instead of Fiddleford, he himself was sucked into the portal at their test run. Fiddleford would have brought him back, yet due to extreme stress and excessive use of the memory gun, he eventually forgot all about it. 
> 
> Since this also meant that Ford had his revelation about Bill's true nature by literally being transported right into the Nightmare Realm, he had not spent his time holed up alone in the shack being paranoid and haunted by Bill, and he also never notified Stan. So neither has Ford had a complete fallout with Fiddleford, his disenchantment with Bill was rather abrupt and had no intense phase of mental torture, and he maybe lacks closure in both regards even more than original!Ford.
> 
> Also literally no one is trying to get him back, which makes him essentially useless for Bill and only a potential nuisance, so that is why Dipper was sent to off him.))


End file.
